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    In Double Jeopardy
    In Double Jeopardy
    In Double Jeopardy
    Ebook386 pages15 hours

    In Double Jeopardy

    By Andrew Neiderman

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    Dead Man Stalking

    Shy and reclusive medical student Elaine Ross is warned she might have trouble dating after her only sister is brutally murdered by her brother-in-law, Dirk Stoner. Dirk, a handsome golf pro and the son of a billionaire developer, was convicted and executed amid a media frenzy that rivaled the O.J. Simpson trial. So when Elaine is coerced out to a nightclub and is unsettled by the advances of Jonathan Lewis -- a man whose mannerisms and gestures eerily remind her of Dirk -- she refuses to succumb to her paranoid fears.

    But Elaine can't conceive of the twisted trail of bribes, blackmail, and murder that Dirk's billionaire father wove in an attempt to save his only son. She isn't aware that an FBI investigation linking the deaths of Dirk's prison doctor and a plastic surgeon has been inexplicably dropped. And Elaine has no way of knowing that the face in her nightmares is carrying a very real torch...for revenge.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPocket Books
    Release dateFeb 28, 2012
    ISBN9781451682595
    In Double Jeopardy
    Author

    Andrew Neiderman

    Andrew Neiderman is the author of numerous novels of suspense and terror, including Deficiency, The Baby Squad, Under Abduction, Dead Time, Curse, In Double Jeopardy, The Dark, Surrogate Child, and The Devil’s Advocate—which was made into a major motion picture starring Al Pacino, Keanu Reeves, and Charlize Theron. He lives in Palm Springs, California, with his wife, Diane. Visit his website at Neiderman.com.

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      Book preview

      In Double Jeopardy - Andrew Neiderman

      DEAD MAN STALKING

      Shy and reclusive medical student Elaine Ross is warned she might have trouble dating after her only sister is brutally murdered by her brother-in-law, Dirk Stoner. Dirk, a handsome golf pro and the son of a billionaire developer, was convicted and executed amid a media frenzy that rivaled the O.J. Simpson trial. So when Elaine is coerced out to a nightclub and is unsettled by the advances of Jonathan Lewis—a man whose mannerisms and gestures eerily remind her of Dirk—she refuses to succumb to her paranoid fears.

      But Elaine can’t conceive of the twisted trail of bribes, blackmail, and murder that Dirk’s billionaire father wove in an attempt to save his only son. She isn’t aware that an FBI investigation linking the deaths of Dirk’s prison doctor and a plastic surgeon has been inexplicably dropped. And Elaine has no way of knowing that the face in her nightmares is carrying a very real torch…for revenge.

      VISIT US ON THE WORLD WIDE WEB

      www.SimonandSchuster.com

      Don’t miss Andrew Neiderman’s other thrilling suspense novels

      THE DARK

      AND

      THE DEVIL’S ADVOCATE

      A major motion picture from

      Warner Bros. starring

      Al Pacino and Keanu Reeves

      AVAILABLE FROM POCKET BOOKS

      Jonathan twirled his mixer in his drink and then took it out and licked it.

      A chill went down Elaine’s spine. Dirk used to do that: look as if he was making love to the mixer, hold it between his lips and swing his eyes at her suggestively.

      Would you like to dance? he asked.

      Elaine hesitated. I’m not very good.

      That I can’t believe, Jonathan said, sliding off the stool and taking her elbow.

      Elaine let him lead her onto the dance floor. He was very graceful and sexy, as sexy as. . . . She pushed the thought out of her mind.

      Exhausted but strangely energized after dancing, they ended up at a table far enough from the music to be able to hear each other talk.

      And then she saw it. In the better lighting, just under the hair at the back of his head, that small birthmark, difficult to notice. Dirk’s birthmark. She was sure she saw it. Or were the lights and shadows playing tricks on that twisted imagination of hers?

      In Double Jeopardy

      Books by Andrew Neiderman

      The Dark

      The Devil’s Advocate

      Immortals

      Imp

      Night Owl

      Tender Loving Care

      In Double Jeopardy

      Published by POCKET BOOKS

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

      An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

      POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

      www.SimonandSchuster.com

      Copyright © 1998 by Andrew Neiderman

      All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

      ISBN: 0-671-01561-3

      First Pocket Books printing November 1998

      POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

      Cover art by Danilo Ducak

      ISBN-13: 978-1-4516-8259-5 (ebook)

      For Hannah Rose—

      part of the legacy, the reason to be

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Epilogue

      In Double Jeopardy

      Prologue

      HARRY ROSS PAUSED AFTER HE entered the busy diner and gazed at the people seated on the black-and-silver counter stools, concentrating mainly on the men. A few glanced at him with vague interest. One, however, looked as if he recognized him. The man cupped his hand and leaned over to whisper something to the woman beside him. She turned quickly and widened her eyes as she nodded.

      Harry ignored them. He panned the black vinyl-covered booths until he spotted a slim red-haired man of about forty signaling inconspicuously from a booth.

      Didn’t expect you’d be out of uniform, Harry remarked as he slid into the bench seat across from Wayne Echert.

      The velvet tones of Toni Braxton came through the small speakers at the rear, her voice just under the chorus of conversation, the clank of dinnerware, and the periodic announcement of orders from the waitresses and countermen.

      Correctional officer’s uniform would attract attention, Mr. Ross. I didn’t think you wanted that, with media hounds haunting you and your family all the time.

      I couldn’t give less of a shit about the media, Harry said. Even he winced at his use of profanity. Up until Farah’s murder and the trial, he hadn’t been one to rely on profanity to express anger and dissatisfaction. He had his own puritanical words that ranked up there with golly and gee whiz. But those days were long gone. He had buried that old Harry Ross alongside his daughter over a year and a half ago, and he was beyond mourning for himself.

      I want to hear about him, every gritty little detail, Harry Ross said, eager to skip any small talk. That was another thing now absent from his life: idle chatter, moments of relaxation and hilarity. He couldn’t remember when he had last laughed, unless it was a laugh of sarcasm. He had become consumed by his need for retribution and revenge. Tales of his former son-in-law’s suffering had become Harry’s lifeblood. He fed on them like a vampire, sucking in every morsel of pain and discomfort Dirk Stoner endured.

      Wayne Echert nodded and quickly shifted his gaze down to his coffee cup. Despite all his years as a prison guard on death row, he had never quite grown comfortable with the look in a condemned man’s eyes. It was truly as if such men could see beyond death. That vision prematurely put the cold, glassy glint of a corpse into them. Those who were resigned to their fate moved like shadows of themselves—gaunt, dark afterthoughts, their every motion mechanical. They slept in coffins and heard the dirt fall on the lids.

      Sometimes it sounds like applause, one condemned man had told him.

      Harry Ross had a similar look in his eyes. In a real sense, he too had been living on death row right beside the former son-in-law he despised so much.

      Wayne was about to speak when the waitress appeared.

      What’ll you have? She skipped any friendly banter because she was behind in the taking of orders. One of the other waitresses hadn’t shown up, and she had to cover her section. Consequently she didn’t really look at Harry Ross. If she had, she would have recognized him immediately. She had followed the trial on Court TV whenever her work schedule had permitted and then had watched the recaps in the evening. Occasionally there was still an article appearing, especially when anything was continued through the legal system. It was one of those stories that defied death itself.

      Just coffee, Harry mumbled. The moment the waitress moved off, he focused on Wayne with all the intensity of a seasoned hunter fixing on his kill. Well?

      Okay. Let’s start with his living conditions, Wayne began. Now that he was here and actually face-to-face with the man, he wanted to get the conversation over with as quickly as possible. The cell’s only about four feet by ten feet. He’s got a stainless-steel sink, a toilet, and a bed. His bed is made of metal and has a mattress an inch and a half thick at most. I don’t know how those guys sleep on them, and—

      So all this time he hasn’t been given anything special in the way of living quarters? Harry asked impatiently. The muscles in his jaw twitched. His forehead tightened like a drum skin.

      Harry was skeptical about the reports he had been given. He distrusted the system, especially when it involved someone with as much money and power as Dirk’s father, Philip Stoner. That was why he had decided to seek information from someone who was right on the scene, a death row correction officer. Who better to describe the actual situation?

      Hell, no. There’s no special setup on death row for anybody, but they do keep him away from even the other death row inmates as much as possible. They’re always afraid someone will kill a famous inmate just for the notoriety.

      But he has more than the others, Harry said, nodding to confirm his own assumption. Doesn’t he?

      Wayne shifted his gaze as Harry smirked. He gets more than the others because he has more money to spend, Echert admitted.

      He gets money from the outside regularly? Harry asked with a painful grimace.

      Look, Wayne said, raising his hands as if he were defending his co-workers, it’s a place of business. He shrugged. What isn’t a place of business these days?

      Harry nodded, his face stolid, now the face of a man who had lost all warm human feeling. On his daughter’s tombstone he should have added, Here lies a father’s heart. He lived like a man whose heart had been ripped out of his body.

      But so what? Wayne continued, answering and arguing with himself. What’s he getting? Better snacks, instant coffee, more stamps, extra toilet paper? He has a television set, but he doesn’t have cable. I mean, this guy is not on the Riviera by any means, Mr. Ross. The cells are so cold that the inmates have to wear layers of clothes in the winter, and in the warmer months some of them are nude just to stay cool.

      Wayne paused and gazed at the other patrons in the diner, wondering if any had recognized Harry Ross and strained to hear their conversation. One couple toward the end kept looking their way.

      Wayne wasn’t comfortable talking to Ross; he wasn’t even comfortable taking the man’s money, but as he had just said, everything was business. Besides, the guy wanted information badly, and Wayne did feel like helping him. He did feel sorry for him. He too had watched some of the trial on television and had caught the pain in Harry Ross’s face when grisly details were given. Wayne had a twelve-year-old daughter and lived with the fear every father inherited the day the doctor said, It’s a girl.

      Go on, Harry said, annoyed with Wayne’s pauses. You said you would tell me all of it.

      He still gets clean laundry only once a week. Before he can go out to the yard, he is strip-searched.

      How do you strip-search an inmate? Harry asked quickly, anticipating some pleasure in the guard’s answer.

      We look in his mouth, under his balls, and up his butt, Mr. Ross. Then we run a metal detector over him. There’s nothing dignified about it.

      Every time?

      Every time.

      How does he react to that?

      Wayne shrugged, hesitant to reply. How would anyone?

      I’m not interested in anyone. I’m interested in him, Harry shot back, raising his voice a few decibels. The waitress brought him his coffee, but he didn’t acknowledge her. His eyes were frozen on Wayne.

      Wayne swallowed some of his coffee, looked at the remains of his bagel longingly, but decided not to bite into it. Harry Ross wouldn’t tolerate the moment it would take to chew it.

      He’s cooperative, Wayne continued, but he has this shit-eating grin on his face that pisses us off.

      Yes, Harry said, nodding as someone in the know would nod, I did hear that he still had that confident grin.

      Harry lifted his coffee cup, blew over the hot liquid, and then took a sip. Wayne Echert felt Harry Ross was staring through him now, not at him.

      He’s the most relaxed condemned man on the block, Wayne admitted, knowing full well it wasn’t something Harry Ross wanted to hear. I think he’s fucking crazy.

      As crazy as a fox, Harry murmured. I don’t know why he stopped his appeals.

      Wayne shrugged. "He knew he wasn’t going to win. All he was doing was prolonging the inevitable, and no matter what you heard, it’s pretty close to hell living on death row, Mr. Ross. You oughta hear the cheers that go up at midnight on New Year’s Eve, when they all realize they’ve survived one more year.

      You know what Dirk Stoner reminds me of now, Mr. Ross? He reminds me of one of Kevorkian’s patients.

      Harry thought about that. Philip Stoner had complained in the newspapers about his son’s decision to stop fighting his execution.

      I can’t force him to do anything he doesn’t want to do, Philip Stoner had claimed. I’m sorry for him, sorry for everyone, he’d added.

      It was a little too late for that, Harry had thought.

      He sat back. He had taken only the one sip of his coffee and didn’t seem interested in taking another.

      He ain’t gonna win any mercy from the governor, Mr. Ross. Everyone’s watching this one. You did a good job of keeping the media on it, and all his father’s money and all his fame as a so-called world-class golfer isn’t going to help him now. We’re in countdown. You won’t have to wait much longer.

      We’ll see, Harry Ross said, lighting up again. His lower lip trembled a bit. Nervousness, like an insidious serpent, had wound its way through the caverns and arteries of his six-foot, two-inch stout frame to curl up in his heart. It reared its ugly head every time he heard a mention of Dirk Stoner’s death sentence being mitigated.

      It hadn’t been the trial of the century, and it hadn’t been as long as the O.J. trial, but it had been one of the more popular ones on Court TV, and it had received considerable media coverage because of Dirk Stoner’s victories on the golf circuit and his father’s great wealth.

      All through it, and especially afterward, during the sentencing hearing, Harry had aligned himself with representatives of minorities who were crying for equal justice.

      Let’s see if a rich, famous white boy can get the death penalty for first-degree murder was a statement often repeated. Harry didn’t hesitate to second it.

      As one of the most successful developers in Los Angeles, Philip Stoner was a confidant of the rich and powerful, of politicians and government officials. He was a chief contributor to the governor’s reelection campaign and was said to have the ear of the White House when he needed it. With all that muscle, the cynics assumed he would get his son off death row.

      Ironically, it had almost become a political necessity to convict and execute Dirk Stoner. Riots had occurred after the Not Guilty verdicts in the Rodney King incident, and the same sorts of riots were feared if the rich white boy escaped the fate that was so often and so easily meted out to poor minority men. There wasn’t a politician in town or in the state who wanted to be associated with manipulating the legal system, not while all these eyes were focused on it.

      Philip Stoner’s army of attorneys, attempting to follow in the footsteps of O. J. Simpson’s dream team, had challenged the forensic evidence. They made a little headway, but were unable to shake off the eyewitness who was every prosecutor’s and defense lawyer’s dream witness: a middle-aged female teacher with an Ivory soap-pure background who happened to be at the scene of the crime, who happened to get a full, close view of the assailant, and who happened to have excellent eyesight.

      When the defense attorneys tried to discredit her testimony by implying she had seen Dirk’s face so often on television and in papers that she just mistook it, she revealed that she didn’t even know what a hole-in-one was. Golf was a bigger mystery to her than the universe. She couldn’t name or identify a single professional player, and she hated sports—all sports. In fact, she rarely watched television.

      She nailed Dirk Stoner, placed him at the crime scene, and shook her head as if she had just caught one of her young pupils committing an act of vandalism. With her long, bony forefinger, she pointed to Stoner in the courtroom.

      I have no doubt that is the man I saw leaving Ms. Ross’s apartment. I couldn’t sit here and swear to something I didn’t believe completely. I am well aware of the importance of my testimony.

      And she was a churchgoer.

      Ten thousand dollars’ worth of designer suits suffered near fatal creases.

      Defiant to the end, Dirk refused to consider a plea, and the trial went the distance.

      After the guilty verdict came the death penalty proceedings. Philip Stoner’s attorneys brought forward an impressive list of witnesses to testify to his son’s character. Dirk had nothing in the way of a police record, not even a speeding ticket, but there was the clear implication that his father had taken care of any of that.

      What did the prosecution have?

      A vicious premeditated crime with no chance of reasonable doubt and no sign of remorse, a number of witnesses who testified to Dirk’s often violent behavior, threats, stalking, arrogant displays of power, and money.

      The jury voted for the death penalty. It went immediately into the appeal process, but unlike most inmates, Dirk Stoner had a legal staff ready to go to work for him; the usual delays finding representation didn’t exist. The process moved quickly, denials following quick denials until, in a sudden and unexpected change of strategy, Stoner stopped his lawyers from continuing. That was what convinced Harry that his daughter’s killer was getting special treatment at the penitentiary.

      I still don’t understand this kind of animal giving up, Harry muttered.

      Wayne nodded. I do, Mr. Ross.

      You do?

      Many of the condemned stop fighting for their lives when they realize they can have a lethal-injection execution. To them it’s just like going asleep and getting it over, getting out of there. It’s too … tempting. We should bring beheading back.

      Harry’s heart sank a bit. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear, even after all this time. He craved revenge, needed it for many reasons, not the least of which was his own peace of mind.

      You know what a buddy of mine at the prison said? He said they’re going to satisfy the bleeding hearts by inventing a serum that ages people in minutes and using that so it’ll look like the condemned died of old age.

      You really think that’s why he’s giving up? Harry asked sadly.

      I think so. A man like that can’t stomach prison life. He wants out now.

      Harry couldn’t help showing his disappointment, even though he knew other people would think him sick with revenge. He looked as if he had aged in seconds. His eyes darkened, and his lips parted with his deep breath.

      Bastard, he said. I hate the thought of anything being easy for him, even death. Especially death.

      Lethal injections don’t always go smoothly, Wayne said.

      Harry perked up. Oh?

      There have been cases where they have a hard time finding the veins and nearly poke the guy to death, and cases where the crap didn’t run smoothly into the veins and the guy took forever to die. Billy Meredith, a fellow correction officer, was telling me about a case in Oklahoma where the killer had a violent reaction to the drugs. He said they described the guy gasping, his whole body going into spasms. They said it looked real ugly, he added with a smile.

      None of that will happen to this man, Harry predicted sadly. The powers that be won’t let it. Tell me more about his life at the moment.

      He hasn’t had as many visitors lately and gets fewer letters. He makes his phone calls, but he’s got to wait his turn like everyone else, Mr. Ross.

      How does he look? Harry asked.

      Look? I don’t understand. Wayne stalled.

      Has he lost weight?

      He’s …

      What?

      Well, he’s got nothing much to do but stay in shape, Mr. Ross. Most of those guys work out. You know, push-ups, sit-ups, exercise in the yard, but he doesn’t have a tan and look like a playboy professional golfer anymore, Wayne added quickly, but that wasn’t enough to soften the pain in Harry Ross’s eyes.

      Harry sighed and gazed out the window at the cars pulling into the parking lot. The afternoon sunshine was so bright it made everything look metallic. Even the parking lot looked like a sheet of steel. They were about twenty minutes from the prison. It was the closest Harry had been to Dirk Stoner since the trial and aftermath. It was almost as if he could smell him, feel his heartbeat in the air.

      You know how he killed her, don’t you? he said. How he sharpened the screwdriver and returned it to the tool chest, expecting it would never be found, how the microscopic forensic evidence confirmed the weapon, and how his skin and an almost microscopic sample of his blood were found on her right forefinger and index finger. She didn’t put up much of a fight because she was taken by surprise. My little girl was a fighter, Mr. Echert. She would have fought much harder if he hadn’t sneaked up on her.

      Wayne forced a smile. Was that an appropriate reaction? he wondered. How should you react when a father brags about his dead daughter’s fighting spirit? And then he leaves and walks right into that teacher outside my daughter’s apartment door, Wayne added quickly to show he knew the details.

      Yes. They tried to buy her off, you know. She was too decent even to mention it, but I found out. I found out, he said nodding.

      I’m surprised they didn’t have that teacher killed, Wayne said. Just like they killed Marilyn Monroe and Jack Ruby. Rich, powerful businessmen are in control of this country, Wayne continued, parroting slogans and thoughts he’d heard at the prison. He thought Harry Ross would second the comments and smile, but his expression didn’t change.

      They would have, except that killing her would have confirmed Stoner’s guilt even more, Harry said.

      He was staring so hard and intensely that Wayne actually cringed. I bet, he managed to say. He was looking toward the door, looking toward the end of this meeting. Harry held his gaze and then smiled, coldly. There isn’t anything a parent won’t do to protect his child if he has the chance, Harry said. If he has a chance … His voice drifted off, but Wayne had no doubt that the statement was filled with as much determination as any living thing could muster for its own survival.

      1

      SITTING ON THE BED IN WHAT had once been Farah’s room, Harry gazed around dumbly, his eyes glassy. Farah had taken most everything with her when she got married, and the room had been used as a guest room, but he had never stopped thinking of it as Farah’s room. Memories of her lingered in these walls, in every nook and corner, her laughter caught and held forever and ever. All he had to do was look at the vanity table or the desk on which she used to do her homework and his reservoir of remembrances came rushing forward, now an exquisite torment.

      Tomorrow, finally, he would get his revenge. Dirk Stoner would be executed, nearly four years after he had been convicted. Harry knew it was happening this soon only because Stoner had stopped the appeals.

      Mom’s right, you know, he heard Elaine say and looked up at his younger daughter leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded, head down. Attending his execution won’t bring Farah back, Dad.

      Maybe it will bring me back, he said.

      She looked up, their eyes meeting.

      You want to be a doctor, Elaine. Think of what’s in here—he pressed his fist against his heart—as a cancer that tomorrow the state of California will cut out of me.

      Operations leave scars, Dad, she said.

      Harry almost smiled. Elaine had always had a doctor’s personality. She could cut to the jugular gracefully, perform the procedure, and retreat unscathed. I have scars deeper than what I might get tomorrow, he said.

      We all have scars, Dad. They’re not going away, ever. He saw the tears in her eyes and was silent for a moment.

      For the first time since Farah’s death, he seriously considered Elaine’s reaction to all this. He had always thought about his own and Lil’s sorrow, but what about Elaine’s? She had suffered a great loss too.

      If you insist on going, I’ll go with you tomorrow, Dad, she said.

      You don’t have to do that, Elaine.

      I won’t let you go alone, Dad, she insisted, even though I hate the thought of looking at him one more time, even to watch him die, even by lethal injection.

      Yeah, Harry said. From what I’ve been told, it will be just like looking at one of your patients at preop.

      She nodded. You’re right, Dad. That’s what it’s like. Pancurium bromide to stop his breathing, potassium chloride for cardiac arrest, sodium pentothal to make him unconscious.

      Dr. Ross, he said nodding and contemplating her for a moment. Then he raised his eyebrows. It should be Dr. Rosenberg, you know.

      What?

      That’s our real name.

      I don’t understand.

      My grandfather changed it to Ross to avoid the ethnic stigma and any possible inference that we were related to the notorious Rosenbergs. I always felt funny going to see my great-uncle Benny because he was my grandfather’s brother, but his name was Ben Rosenberg and mine was Harry Ross. He always made fun of the change, too. ‘So how is it with you, Mr. Ross?’ he would ask me and smile.

      Elaine laughed. What other surprises do you have for me, Dad?

      Nothing else, he said sadly and gazed at the floor again. Nothing else.

      Don’t go, Dad, she said after a moment.

      I have to go, Elaine.

      It will be a circus—the media, demonstrators …

      I have to go, he said again. Thank God my parents didn’t live to see any of this.

      Lil’s parents were still alive and remarkably healthy for people in their late eighties. They had attended only one of the trial sessions. They sat in the rear, listened, and then went home, too shaken by the details to return.

      Now that the ordeal was truly coming to an end, Lil wanted Harry to put the matter to rest, to accept Farah’s death, as she had finally accepted it.

      Harry refused to accept it. His beautiful, talented daughter had been slaughtered, and even with Dirk Stoner’s surprise legal capitulation, retribution had been slow in coming, as far as Harry was concerned. In more primitive times, when men were men, an eye for an eye would have been a quick and strong act of justice.

      Immediate retribution was important. Why didn’t our society see that? Time diminished the impact of the evil act, put it so far back in the memory that the horror was reduced to mere words and the victim drifted into a mere name, an old photo, a statistic.

      But we are civilized men, he thought sarcastically. We house our criminals; we dissect their psyches and analyze their evil; we build entire professions, mechanisms, industries, around them as one great euphemistic expression. He concluded it was all only an attempt to deny the most basic truth about ourselves: we can be utterly vicious and cruel to each other to satisfy our own selfish needs.

      No, he would not accept it, but he couldn’t get mad at Lil for trying to get him to do so. She had been and still was one of the prettiest women he had ever met. He always considered himself lucky to have found her and won her heart. He and Lil had become the most famous and successful real estate couple in the Valley. All the movie studio executives came to them to find homes. They were featured in regional magazines and on regional television shows, but the wedding of their local fame with their national renown was an uneasy marriage.

      Harry was self-conscious about the way people now looked at him. He had become paranoid. He was the first to admit it. Since the trial and its aftermath, he questioned the motives of nearly every client. Were they really coming to them to find a decent place to live, or did they just want to go back to their friends and say, "Guess who we’re using as real estate agents—the Rosses. Yes, those Rosses!"

      He and Lil had become "Those Rosses."

      Okay, Dad, Elaine said. Good night. She gazed around the room for a moment and then left him.

      He had such a feeling of emptiness.

      Harry knew that Elaine felt he had favored Farah over her. He didn’t think he had. Elaine was just a different kind of girl, more like Lil, cerebral, a reader, unafraid of being alone. Farah had been sociable, outgoing, more emotional, warmer, more dependent on him and his affection. Farah hadn’t been subtle and complicated. There was never a question about what she wanted in life. She liked the recognition, the expensive cars and clothes, the adulation.

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